


Open Your Heart

by katherine1753



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Couch Cuddles, Enemies to Lovers, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:42:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27546286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katherine1753/pseuds/katherine1753
Summary: Esteemed author Francis Crozier has been sent on a writing retreat by his friend and agent James Clark Ross. Francis hates everything about it: the forced socialization, the writing in an unfamiliar environment, the brunch. But most of all, he hates that the one person sharing his cottage is the very person he had hoped most would not be on this retreat at all: James Fitzjames.For the Fall Fitzier Exchange
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 9
Kudos: 37
Collections: Fall Fitzier Exchange





	Open Your Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [soft_october](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soft_october/gifts).



> For soft_october  
> I tried to combine a few of your prompts, I hope you like it!

THURSDAY 

Francis Crozier sighed to himself for the eighth time (or quite possibly the ninth) as he stared out of the train window and fiddled with the handles of his suitcase. He didn’t really want to be going on this writing retreat; he’d rather sit alone at his desk in silence to write, but his agent Ross had insisted, claiming the picturesque views and company of fellow authors in similar genres would be good for him. Francis thought it was a good way to have too-similar books be published at the same time and for their publishing companies to get some annoying social media posts about all of them getting along together. 

Francis could only think of one other author grouped into his incredibly niche genre of historical nautical murder mysteries, and he hated James Fitzjames. He hated his writing style. He hated that they were often grouped into the same category when Francis’s books had obvious skill and slow burns and research whereas Fitzjames’s books had fantasy elements and read like a story told at a party. He hated his smug face. He hated his wildly more successful twitter account (though, Francis’s follower count was very slowly catching up with his assistant Jopson taking the reins whenever Francis would relinquish his ever-changing password). 

Francis had only met James Fitzjames once before at a signing put on by their shared publisher, Admiralty Books. It was a constant source of frustration for Francis that they shared the same publisher. After the signing, Francis, infuriated, had been avoiding him in person ever since. Twitter, on the other hand, had quickly become a battleground. If he didn’t know any better, he would have assumed that Fitzjames had a whole PR team behind the account. But no, according to Jopson’s careful inquiries, he was just that annoyingly charismatic. Francis often fact-checked him, complained about his books, complained about his over abundance of selfies, and they sniped at each other constantly. Or, Francis did. Fitzjames always seemed a little amused by him. Which honestly only infuriated him all the more. 

On his ninth (or quite possibly the tenth) sigh, he unfolded the itinerary Jopson had printed for him. He wanted to throw it away the moment he would arrive at his assigned writing cottage for the long weekend, lock the door, and plot out his next book in peace and quiet. Mandatory fun and meet-and-greets sounded god-awful. He just prayed Fitzjames was too busy to attend, or (even better) that he hadn’t been invited at all. Thinking about Fitzjames not being invited to something like this put a bit of a smile on his face, even though Francis didn’t want to be going at all. 

He opened his phone to text Jopson his thoughts, but grumbled as he tucked it back into his pocket: Jopson had made him promise not to text unless absolutely necessary and to enjoy his vacation. Jopson had also temporarily changed his twitter password and he was locked out of his own account for the weekend, supposedly also for his own good. It was the only time he’d ever been tempted to yell at Jopson. Young Thomas had been his assistant for years now, and he was used to Francis’s moods and whims. Somehow he had stuck by him through many crises. James Clark Ross, however, received a very angry email this morning, because he had not made Francis promise him anything. 

Three and a half days. Three and a third, if he was being truly honest, and that third was just this evening in which the itinerary had just suggested that they settle in and relax in their cottages. But Francis would count it all the same, he would count every minute, because every single moment of this so-called vacation was going to be Hell on Earth. There was even a brunch scheduled for Sunday. He hated brunch. He hated everything about this entire trip. 

A car picked him up at the train station, thankfully allowing him to ride alone with his grumbling thoughts. Arriving at the retreat location, Francis was a bit relieved to see only a handful of cottages scattered upon the rolling hills, with a large building down below for meetings and other nonsense on the itinerary. He hoped Ross had had enough sense to request that Francis’s cabin be the one at the top of the hill there, where he could look out across the sea. That would give him some inspiration, perhaps. The sci-fi writers wouldn’t need views of the sea, surely. He checked in at the meeting center, and happily noted that there was only one key in his stack of things (a welcome packet he wouldn’t read, a t-shirt he would never wear, and a logo covered stress ball that he would unironically give to Jopson) while the other stacks varied between one and two keys. He was given a map (the one thing he might actually use) and smiled an actual smile when the cabin circled to be his was indeed the one on the top of the hill. 

Francis gathered his things and walked up the pathway to his cottage, taking in the brisk wind and the smell of the sea. Maybe this was what he needed. He’d never admit it to Ross, or he’d end up on another one of these, maybe even multiple retreats (he shuddered at the thought of it), but maybe he would text Jopson tonight and say things were ok (and that would go very far into proving how good things actually were). Peace, solitude, and the sea. That was what he needed. And with three days to write, he was sure to make some great progress. 

He unlocked the door and stepped inside, a bit surprised to see some lights were already on. A noise came from down the little hallway: there was someone in the kitchen. Francis walked down the hall a little cautiously and poked his head around the corner. James Fitzjames looked up from the little kitchen table and smiled at him. 

“Francis!” he called happily.

Francis’s eyes widened, he said nothing, turned on his heel and stormed out of the cottage, slamming the door behind him. Two seconds later, he had Jopson on the phone.

“Hello, sir, how’s it going?” Jopson asked cheerily and Francis swore he could feel his phone crack in his ever-tightening grip against his ear.

“Would you care to explain to me why in the devil’s name I am sharing a cottage with James Fucking Fitzjames?” Francis seethed as he paced the cliffside, furious at the world and wondering if another train would be running this late at night to rescue him and take him home. This was a disaster. A complete bloody disaster. He should have known, should have trusted his instincts and refused to go, Ross could have tried to drag him kicking and screaming all the way and he was certain that Ross didn’t have the upper arm strength for that. 

“Oh,” Jopson replied, sounding pained. There was a pause. A muffled conversation in the background. Jopson was probably in Ross’s office. Francis was going to murder James Clark Ross the moment he returned home if he was behind this. Damn him and his meddling. He often tried to force Francis into reading more of Fitzjames’s work. “I’m so sorry sir, I had  _ specifically _ requested a single cottage for you,” Jopson said pointedly. Definitely Ross’s fault, then. “Mr. Ross insisted you be grouped by genre, he...he’s telling me that he had no idea it would be Mr. Fitzjames you’d be sharing with.” Jopson sounded unconvinced, but polite as always. 

“How am I supposed to get any writing done when I’m saddled with that idiot all weekend?” Francis grumbled. “I was supposed to be here by myself, plotting my next book, which I could have done perfectly well at home, mind you, and now- now this- this-” he sighed angrily. “What was the bloody point? I didn’t want to come here at all.” 

“Francis,” Ross had taken Jopson’s phone. Great. 

“I hate you,” Francis growled. 

“No you don’t!” He could hear Ross’s smile through the phone. He wanted to punch it off of his face. “This will be good for you, old boy. You haven’t spoken to him in years, besides the nonsense on twitter. His last book was very good, you’d know if you actually read anything past his first one.”

“I will not,” Francis retorted. “Book me a train home.”

“No,” Ross said again. “Francis, you need this. And ever since Sophy…”

“Don’t,” Francis said, a whisper that left no room for argument. It had been years since Sophia left him, and the pain whenever he thought about it was just as fresh as the day she had moved out. 

“You only ever talk to Jopson and me, especially since rehab. You and Fitzjames have a lot in common, besides just your books.” Francis scoffed in disbelief, but had run out of words in his anger and thought it best to just let Ross continue on a bit. “You need a friend, Francis.”

“I have you and Jopson.” He knew it was a weak answer, grasping at straws, but he was still angry and he did not want to be here. 

“A friend that doesn’t work for you, or that you work for,” Ross said gently. 

“I have Blanky.”

“Yes, but Blanky’s off on sabbatical for a year,” Ross reminded him. 

Francis sighed. He knew Ross was right, but he would absolutely never admit it. “But why him?” He knew he sounded like a petulant child, whining about something unfair, but when his anger depleted he often just got moody and sad, and Ross deserved to deal with it this time. 

“Talk to him, Francis,” Ross ordered. Francis scoffed again; he only followed his orders when it came to book deadlines. “Your silence tells me you won’t. But think about it, alright? I’d best give Jopson his phone back before he explodes,” Ross laughed quietly. Poor Tom was probably frantically trying to get his phone back. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Francis’s pacing and arguing and anger had tired him out. He just wanted to go to bed and pretend this was all a bad dream. “Ross?”

“Yes, Francis?”

“...I don’t hate you,” Francis admitted. He felt bad that he had said it, and he had said worse things before, but Ross never held that against him. Francis thought he probably didn’t deserve his friendship.

“I know,” Ross said kindly. “Have a nice retreat, Francis. We’ll see you on Monday.”

Francis said goodbye and hung up his phone, shoving it into his pocket and leaving his hands tucked in for warmth. It was getting dark, but he didn’t want to go back to the cottage yet. He didn’t want to have to deal with Fitzjames yet.

With a sigh, he wandered down the little path on the edge of the cliffside overlooking the sea. The sound of waves always calmed him, the sight of the open sea. He took some deep breaths and refocused his thoughts. Rehab had been hell, but it had taught him some useful ways to cope. 

He spent more time on the hills than he had planned to, and before he knew it it was rather dark. He often got lost in his thoughts staring out at open water, especially when reminded of things he’d rather not spend his time thinking about. He had been lonely without Sophia. He knew he had been closing himself off to the world, and isolating himself in rehab had only added to that. It was very necessary for him to have gone, and it saved his life, but he should have tried harder to reconnect with people when he got out. With Jopson and Ross working with him, he was able to see them often. Blanky had been his steadfast friend since childhood and there was no separating him. But Francis was rather lonely. To his dismay, a lot of his conversations were actually with Fitzjames on twitter. Mostly complaining, or sarcastic, or a thumbs down comment on a selfie, or a ‘we’ve heard this one before’ on a story spread out in a long thread. 

Thankfully, when he returned to the cottage, it seemed Fitzjames had already gone to sleep, or at least retired to his room for the night. There was a plate of cookies on the little table just inside his bedroom door, atop a piece of very expensive looking pink-tinted paper with a smiley face drawn on it. It looked like Fitzjames had baked them himself while Francis was out brooding. He hadn’t realized he’d been outside for so long. Or maybe, that was what Fitzjames had been doing when Francis first arrived. Baking him cookies. Francis scoffed, rolled his eyes, and shut his door, ignoring the cookies. 

But he couldn’t resist for long, the temptation of a sweet treat before bed was too strong, and the smell of warm chocolate chips was calling to him. Grumbling to himself, he got out of bed and snatched up the plate. And damn it all, the cookies were delicious. 

  
  


FRIDAY

Francis woke up before his alarm went off to the sound of 80’s pop hits blasting from the general direction of the kitchen. He shoved his pillow over his head, trying to drown them out, but it was no use, Madonna’s voice penetrated through his door and blanket and pillow. Grumbling, he rolled over and checked his phone, seeing that it was about an hour before he had planned to get up, which only made him grumble more. He shoved his clothes on and brushed his teeth, scowling at himself in the little bathroom mirror, and stomped into the kitchen wearing a rather fearsome scowl. 

Fitzjames was cooking something (that Francis would begrudgingly admit smelled rather good) and singing along softly as he danced around the kitchen. 

“What in God’s name are you doing?” Francis griped as he shuffled into the kitchen, still trying to rub the sleep from his eyes. Mornings were always rough on him.

“Good morning, Francis!” Fitzjames called in a voice way too bright for this time of day. 

“Don’t call me Francis,” he grumbled in reply. 

“I’m making breakfast, before we have to go down for the introductions, do you want some?” Fitzjames was rather annoyingly chipper in the mornings. 

Despite his stomach growling for the delicious smelling breakfast that Fitzjames was cooking, Francis poured himself a cup of coffee from the already brewing pot (the only good thing that he would outwardly admit Fitzjames had done) and grumbled his way back to his bedroom to mentally prepare for the day. The music was still too loud. He shoved his notebooks and laptop into his shoulder bag and left their cottage; he’d rather spend his morning looking out over the sea than stuck in a cramped little kitchen with Fitzjames, especially since the man was so obviously a morning person, and Francis so obviously was not. 

Upon reaching the conference center, he found that thankfully the writing retreat was not as scheduled or full of mandatory things to do as Jopson’s schedule had led him to believe. Apparently his assistant had just been trying to be helpful, listing many optional events on his little paper, but Francis would have some words with him when he returned home. He would go to the required introductory meeting, but he would spend the day writing. And he would find a way to get out of that blasted brunch on Sunday. 

The authors had a small meeting just to introduce themselves and their works, Francis mumbling his way through as quickly as possible, and then were set loose upon the hillsides and cottages, the organizers giving them ample writing time in a number of environments, including the conference center itself, which was filled with everything from cubicle desks to squashy chairs arranged in little pods. 

Francis left the conference center as soon as he could, it was much too crowded for him and some of the younger authors looked as if they might want to speak with him. If Ross was their agent as well, he would be willing to bet money that he had encouraged the younger authors to pester him. Well, he was having none of that, and so he escaped as soon as the meeting was over. He figured Fitzjames would stay at the center, the way he was striking up conversations with everyone within earshot of him. Plus, the little sitting room in the cabin had a particularly nice view of the sea. It would be a decent place to write; not quite as good as his familiar desk at home, but good enough for here. 

But, alas, his solitude was not to be. Fitzjames had followed him from the conference center and back to their cottage, trying to make conversation the whole walk back. Francis either ignored him or cut him off with one or two-word answers. The man was incredibly infuriating. But none of his grumbling or, he supposed he would admit to it: rudeness, seemed to deter Fitzjames. 

“It’s good to see you,” Fitzjames said as he caught up with Francis’s quick strides trying to get away, damn his long legs. 

“No it isn’t,” Francis mumbled. It was times like these that he wished he hadn’t stopped drinking. He knew that wasn’t a helpful train of thought, and took a deep breath to try to calm himself. Guided breathing could only help so much, though.

Francis took up residence at the single desk in the cottage, not even asking if Fitzjames minded. He could go back to the conference center for all Francis cared. But it didn’t seem that Fitzjames minded in the slightest, depositing himself on the couch adjacent to Francis and popping on a set of oversized headphones as he pulled out an ostentatiously sleek laptop from his designer bag. 

Francis just rolled his eyes and got to work on a new project he’d been wanting to start for quite some time. But a few sentences into his outline, he became increasingly aware that Fitzjames’s headphones were not doing all that much to conceal the music playing through them. And he was blasting more of his infuriating 80’s pop hits in them. Which was, in Francis’s opinion, entirely inappropriate for the theme and time periods of either of their writings. 

“Can you turn that down?” Francis snapped, spinning around in his chair to glare at him. 

“What?” Fitzjames had the audacity to ask, lifting one of the massive earphones off of his ear and cocking his head slightly like a confused puppy. Francis hated him for looking so frustratingly endearing. No wonder so many people were so swayed by him; they didn’t see how truly bothersome he was underneath that charming exterior. 

“Turn that blasted music off,” Francis complained again, the music worming its way into his brain. He knew it would be stuck in his head at least for the rest of the day, if not the entirety of the weekend. Damn 80’s hits. 

“It’s my writing process,” Fitzjames said earnestly. Surely not. He surely didn’t need those to write. There was no way. Francis could feel himself bristling. 

“How-” Francis cut himself off with a sigh. “It’s not even the mood or time period for your books!” 

Apparently that was entirely the wrong thing to say, maybe he should have just argued with him or ignored him entirely, because Fitzjames got even more of a hopeful puppy look on his face, perking up and asking excitedly: “you’ve read my books?” 

Francis stilled. He didn’t want to be caught in a lie. He had been picking the books apart on twitter for years now, yes. As for actually reading them...he had read the first one, back at that signing event all those years ago. But since then he’d only angrily read reviews or listened to what Ross or Jopson had to say about the books (and both of them always gave gleaming reviews, but Francis was nearly always able to find something to pick at). They were both very much fans of Fitzjames, which made Francis all the more angry about him, and gave him more vitriol on twitter. 

“No,” Francis ended up snapping. “Well. Some of them,” he admitted, not meeting Fitzjames’s eyes. Any way he could have answered that, truth or lie, would not have been a good answer. And surely now Fitzjames would have the upper hand, he would snap at him or complain about how Francis had been attacking him on twitter without cause, something. Some of which Francis probably deserved. 

But all that came from Fitzjames was a sad little “oh.”

“I don’t...I don’t have time,” Francis tried to explain, the lie tasting fake in his mouth before the words were even out. He didn’t know why he was trying to placate him, but something about that defeated expression, that sad tone, was getting to him in a way that wasn’t just the usual irritating feeling that he had while talking to Fitzjames. 

Fitzjames gave him a small, sad smile. “I had thought, maybe, with all we’ve talked about online…”

“Well. You thought wrong,” Francis bristled. He did not like being called out on things, even if they were true. He was unprepared to defend himself, and he could feel his cheeks heating up, damn his complexion. 

“What did you think? About the ones you’ve read?” Fitzjames asked after a moment, still somehow undeterred by Francis’s general unpleasantness. He had lowered his headphones to rest around his neck, obviously hoping for a longer conversation. He hadn’t paused his music, however. 

Francis sighed. He didn’t really want to get into all of this now, especially not when he thought he had been making his opinions quite clear over twitter these past few years. 

“They were...passable,” Francis gritted out. He just wanted to go back to writing. He didn’t want to argue; he didn’t want to talk about this. He just wanted to write. He just wanted to do what he had been forced on this altogether stupid trip to do. “Look,” Francis said, finally fed up enough to put a stop to this as he felt his anger rising back up. Fitzjames probably did not deserve to be the recipient of his wrath which was mostly caused by going on this trip in general, but he was the only one there and he had been the final straw. “I was supposed to be here by  _ myself _ , to write, and if you keep talking  _ incessantly _ as you have been since the moment we arrived, I will get  _ nothing _ done. If you can write while talking non-stop then congratulations I suppose, but go bother someone else.” 

“I...don’t understand why you’re in such a foul mood,” Fitzjames commented, taking his headphones back in hand. 

“I was supposed to have my own cottage, to write,  _ alone.  _ To write and relax and get things done, and now...and now, I’m stuck here with you, of all people!” Francis exploded, slapping a hand onto the desk. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Fitzjames frowned further, the lines creasing his annoyingly perfect face. 

“You know exactly what it means! Haven’t you been paying attention to any of our interactions on twitter?”

“Well, yes, but-” Fitzjames looked more confused than anything. 

“So you should know!” Francis spluttered, turning quite red. 

“Francis,” Fitzjames said placatingly.

“Don’t call me Francis!” Francis snapped again. 

“...Francis,” Fitzjames said again. “I see that I might have misinterpreted some of our past interactions,” he admitted quietly. 

“And what is  _ that  _ supposed to mean?” Francis asked incredulously, echoing Fitzjames’s earlier sentiments. 

“I think you would know if you read my books,” was all Fitzjames said in reply, a self-deprecating smile on his face which just made Francis all the more angry and confused. “But, no, apparently you’re too busy to read them, but have just enough free time to pick at them on twitter,” he added after a moment. “Your jabs are quite painful sometimes, Francis.” 

“Maybe they deserve to be picked at!” Francis snapped again. “At least my books are properly researched!”

“I research!” Fitzjames retorted. 

Francis scoffed. 

“I travel extensively and immerse myself in the cultures for research! I don’t just sit at my little desk and look things up on the internet!”

Francis didn’t deign that with a comment. “Your stories are utterly ridiculous,” he said decisively. 

“What, because of the fantasy elements? They’re culturally relevant myths! My readers enjoy them, and every one of them has been praised by readers within those places of being incredibly respectful to the myths and enlightening to those who don’t know the origins.” 

Francis just rolled his eyes. 

“At least my stories aren’t boring,” Fitzjames said, standing up. 

“Oh!” Francis said, very red in the face. 

Fitzjames sighed. “My books, Francis. Have you read them? Have you  _ actually  _ read any of them? I thought…” he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter what I thought. Apparently this was all a mistake.” He pulled a glossy hardcover book out of his satchel. “My detective in my latest novels, my sea captain...I based him on you. Which you would have known if you had bothered to read any of them. I’ve sent you one at every release. I’d thought that we...well, it doesn’t matter anymore, does it?” he said cynically. “Even just glancing at the dedication page should have told you as much. And you couldn’t even be bothered to open them.” He tossed the book on to Francis’s desk, and stepped towards the door. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Francis said obstinately. He knew it was a weak reply, but he didn’t want to admit that all the books had been given to Jopson immediately without him even opening the packaging, much less the books themselves. Jopson had insisted many times that he read this one in particular…

“Just read my book, Francis. Please,” James said, before turning and leaving the cottage, pulling the door shut quite hard behind him. 

Francis didn’t want to. He pushed the novel to the edge of his desk and tried to focus on his work. He opened a word document, stared at it for a good long while, and closed the file. He flipped through one of his notebooks of ideas. He stared for a long time out the window overlooking the sea. But his thoughts kept being drawn to the book on the corner of the desk. What had Fitzjames meant by all of it?

With a defeated sigh, he picked it up, and began to read. 

_ Dedicated to Francis Crozier, whose books inspired me to begin writing, whose witty conversations fuel my passion and motivation, and whose personal character directly inspired my sea captain.  _

Oh. 

Francis was at a loss for words as his heart thudded in his chest. 

He spent the rest of his Friday reading Fitzjames’s book. He barely noticed when Fitzjames returned that evening, quietly letting himself into the cottage, giving Francis a pause, a glance, before retiring to his room. 

Francis read until he could read no more, until his eyes couldn’t focus on the shape of letters any longer. He scrubbed at his face and stretched out the cricks in his back, many joints popping as he had sat in one position for way too long. 

Fitzjames’s book wasn’t just good, it was brilliant. And to have based his main character on Francis? Perhaps Francis had been the one gravely mistaken this whole time. He crawled into his bed, much too tired to figure out the thoughts in his brain. One thing he did know before he passed out for the night was that he probably should listen to Jopson more often.

SATURDAY

The first thing Francis did upon waking Saturday morning was finish James’s book. He couldn’t bring himself to do anything else, he had to finish it. And when it was done, when it was complete, and he closed the book after the last page...it was a feeling that he had not experienced in some time; that wistful pull of the book, the difficulty returning to reality. A glance at his forgotten phone on his nightstand told him that he had ignored texts from Jopson and Ross, he had ignored his own manuscripts and notebooks and plots, all because he was so engrossed in the book he still held in his hands. He’d never had his attention so preoccupied before except when he was writing his own books. 

Francis was shocked. Completely and utterly shocked. He would never have guessed that the character was supposed to represent him unless someone had told him so, and, yes, perhaps Jopson had tried to insinuate the similarities a few times in the past, but Francis never listened. And sure, there were quite a few commonalities between him and the sea captain, both good and bad: their temper, their habits, their attention to detail, their tortured past. it seemed that James had been able to read him like a book, no matter how closed off Francis had thought he had been. He would have written it off as a coincidence if James hadn’t told him, if he hadn’t read the dedication page. James saw him for who he was, saw past his flaws, and held him in such a light that Francis highly doubted he deserved. 

Francis was not the villain in his story, he was the hero. The love interest. The clever protagonist. 

And besides all of that, and the way it tugged at Francis’s heart, the book was  _ good.  _ It captured your imagination immediately, it took you through the journey at just the right pace, held you on the edge of suspension until it plunged you over the exciting edge. The research was thorough. The plot was well done. There were no continuity errors, all the loose ends were tied up at the end with just enough of a hint for a potential sequel. It was commendable. It left Francis both with that wonderful satisfying feeling of finishing a good book, and with an intense craving for more, to return to that world that had held his undivided attention. And Francis realized that he had gravely underestimated James, both his writing and his personality. He had been making an utter fool of himself these past few years, ignoring the man and treating him so on twitter. If only he’d given him a chance those years ago when James had tried to strike up a conversation at their signing instead of just judging him off one glance, as one judges a book by the cover. 

Francis shuffled out of his room shyly, clutching the book to his chest like a child, in search of James. He needed to talk to him, needed to apologize for years of hostility and misunderstandings, needed to praise his work. But James’s door was open and his lights were off. There was no smell of breakfast coming from the kitchen, no bustling noises of cooking. The cottage was silent. It gave him a bit of an uneasy feeling, but he figured that perhaps James had just left for the day, spending his time at the conference center again like he had yesterday since their argument, leaving Francis to hopefully read his book. Francis got himself ready and decided to head down to the retreat center. And while he knew he should feel like a dog with his tail between his legs, he was in an oddly good mood this morning, all to do with James’s book. It was truly something to be seen so, to be so very known and understood. It should be mortifying. And yet, to have someone see that and accept it all? It made Francis float with a new spring in his step. 

It was only after he had left the cottage that he realized that he hadn’t heard any of James’s music that day. And after that the concern began to creep back into his veins. 

While he didn’t find James anywhere in the conference center, he did find a Mr. Edward Little, who was a new author at Francis’s publishing company. Edward had been hoping to talk to him all weekend, but he was rather reserved, and hadn’t wanted to approach Francis while he was scowling so. Apparently Francis looked much more approachable now, as the young man introduced himself, and Francis indulged him and answered all the questions he could come up with, poor Mr. Little stumbling over his words at being put on the spot. He was writing a resurgence of Austen-type historical romances with a bit of a gothic twist to them. Francis, rather feeling like Ebenezer Scrooge the morning after his encounters with the Christmas Ghosts, gave him Jopson’s number. He knew Tom would enjoy Edward’s books, and no doubt Mr. Little himself. 

When Edward had thanked him, bid him goodbye, and returned to his desk setup, Francis texted Jopson, a rare smile still on his face. 

- _ All is well. Don’t say I’ve never done anything for you. His name is Edward, go easy on him.  _

And, thoughts returning to James, he realized he could probably track Fitzjames’s movements via social media. 

- _ Can I have my twitter password yet? _

Jopson replied quickly, as he always did: 

- _ No to the twitter, sir. It’s good to hear from you, Mr. Ross and I were getting a bit worried.  _

_ -And thank you, sir, I was wondering who else was texting me.  _

_ \- :)  _

Francis chuckled to himself. He was in a weirdly good mood, he had set up his assistant with another author at their publishing company, and he had one of James’s 80s songs stuck in his head. What a day. He was nearly humming to himself, it was bizarre behavior for him. 

He wandered around the grounds for a bit, letting his thoughts run wild and keeping an ear open for James Fitzjames’s distinctive tones. It was mid-afternoon by the time he found him, and the length of time that passed had caused his worries to return a bit; worry both for James and Francis’s regular anxieties. The sun was beginning to set low in the sky, and while the chill of the morning had never really receded, it was beginning to get quite cold. Francis usually enjoyed the brisk weather, but he hadn’t packed for it. It was much chillier than it was supposed to have been that weekend. 

He thought he had a sweater shoved somewhere into his suitcase, and was just planning on fetching it, when he had seen a mop of dark hair near the cliffside. He approached it, finding James Fitzjames sitting on the rocks overlooking the cold, open sea. There was a coffee mug clutched in his hands, but it looked rather abandoned and forlornly half-drank. The too-cold coffee and the designer sweater that looked nice but surely did nothing for the chill of the air were both mockeries of warmth. His hair gently moving in the wind and his shoulders rising with slow, steady breaths were the only signs of life in an otherwise statue of a man. 

Francis paused for a moment and then sat down beside him. It took Fitzjames a moment to notice him there, and when he finally glanced over at him Francis saw that he looked rather melancholy, large doleful eyes and sad lines on his face. 

“Do you hate me, Francis,” he finally asked in a flat tone after a few minutes of silence, voice cracking with disuse, looking back out across the sea. 

“No, James. No, I don’t hate you,” Francis reassured him. 

James gave a small laugh that wasn’t much more than a huff of air. “Did you know that I almost didn’t get picked up by Admiralty? Back at first? I’d sent my first manuscript to...to hundreds of publishers. No one wanted it. Which now, looking back, is more understandable than it was to me at the time. No, I saved another author from a major scandal, and James Clark Ross promised me he’d take a look at my next work. That one made it through. But that’s the only reason that I’m published, truth be told. I’m a fake.” 

Francis looked at him a moment. He knew Ross wouldn’t just publish anything; he had to have seen something in James that no one else did, not even James himself. He told Fitzjames so, not sure if he would believe him or not. “I challenge any critics to say you are a fake. You’re only a man, it’s alright to take opportunities when you can. Your work stands for itself now. You’re a  _ good _ author, James.”

“I. I saw you reading my book…”

“Yes. Yes, it’s...it was…” Francis was entirely at a loss for words when it came to James’s book, though it had been the main occupant of his mind since the moment that he began reading it. “Thank you, James.”

James sniffled, looking rather lost, his mournful eyes paining Francis to see. He gave a wry little twist of his mouth, determined to dig himself into a hole that he needn’t be in in the first place. “I thought...this whole time, on twitter, I thought we were flirting.”

Francis blinked at him. He had most definitely misinterpreted things. Many things, apparently. If only he’d read the books. If only he’d listened to Jopson. If only he’d paid more attention. “I didn’t know…”

“Well, now you do.” 

“Now I do,” Francis said, putting one hand on his shoulder. 

“You always commented on my posts, you remembered all my stories, your advice was always so helpful,” James listed, trying to prove his point. 

Francis was a bit gobsmacked. Maybe there really was something there, a reason why he was so focused on James Fitzjames that his muddled brain was trying to convince him was only anger. His was the first profile that Francis would check in the morning and the last before he would go to bed. He spent his breaks scrolling through his posts and reading his interviews. He unintentionally knew a lot about the man, but he had ignored all of the good there. His advice...he supposed, if you looked at it from the outside, what he had meant as semi-constructive criticism heavy on the criticism could have been seen as such. Or James was so desperate for validation that he had taken it that way. Francis needed to be more gentle with him now, he knew, to protect this fragile thing that they had between them. 

“You truly liked it?” James asked again, drawing Francis out of his spiraling train of thought. 

“I did,” Francis said honestly. “I’ve been missing out on quite a lot, it seems. Both your books and...and you.”

Fitzjames looked at him again, doleful eyes staring into his soul. A pleading glance turning into a longer silent question. 

“I’ve been an idiot,” Francis admitted. “A right idiot. This whole time,” he shook his head. “When we get back to London, will you let me buy you a coffee? As an apology, at least, if not something more?”

“I would like that very much,” James sniffled at him again. 

They sat side by side in companionable silence for a while, staring out over the sea as the sun set. Things felt new. Peaceful. A fresh start, a new beginning. Francis didn’t think he would ever get one of those. He’d had his fair share of restarts, after Sophia, after Rehab, but they’d all left him feeling empty. This was different, he knew that for sure. And he would be damned if he’d let it go without a fight. 

After a while, James leaned over, letting his head rest on Francis’s shoulder. Francis very carefully let his arm rest behind James across the rock they shared, supporting his back. A fragile moment that he would never let go.

“Thank you, Francis,” he whispered so quietly that it nearly drifted out to sea instead of to Francis’s ears. 

“How long have you been out here?” Francis asked quietly, not daring to move in fear of breaking this little thing between them. 

“‘M not sure,” James mumbled. “Hours. However long it took you to come to your senses,” he added, and Francis could hear the smile coming back into his voice.

“You’re shivering,” Francis commented, feeling the man shake lightly against him. He’d probably been out here all day, the dramatic man that he was. 

“I was in a mood,” James pouted. 

“Oh, yes, I could tell that for sure,” Francis rolled his eyes. “Come on, then, let’s get you warmed up. Ross and the rest of Admiralty would never forgive me if I let you freeze to death.” 

He rose and helped pull James to his feet, keeping his arm around him as they walked the short distance back to the cabin. Francis deposited him on the couch and went to fetch the thick blanket from his room, draping it around James’s shoulders. He just continued to stare at him with those big, sad eyes. 

“There,” Francis said, tucking the edges of the blanket around him. He was debating getting the blanket from James’s bed as well, when James stopped him with a cold hand on his wrist. 

“Francis,” he said pleadingly. 

Francis hesitated a moment, only a moment, before sitting beside him on the couch and pulling him closer, rubbing one of James’s arms through the blanket to get some warmth back into it. James snuggled closer happily, wrapping his blanket-clad self around Francis like some sort of clinging creature that Francis was unable to think of at the moment, his mind too preoccupied with the man in his arms. 

  
  


SUNDAY 

On the final day of the retreat, there was a brunch scheduled down at the conference center for all of the writers. Francis was rather reluctant to get out of bed that morning. James was up early, as he seemed to usually be, doing his hair in the bathroom while his 80’s pop playlist was back on full volume. Francis, for once, did not grumble at that. He found himself almost smiling. What he did grumble at, was the brunch itself. He’d always hated brunch. 

“Francis, why so gloomy? It’s brunch!” James beamed, popping his head out from the doorway, hair in gleaming curls. 

“It’s an abomination, that’s what it is,” Francis complained, gathering his things. “If I wanted breakfast, I’d have breakfast. If I wanted lunch, I’d have lunch. No need to combine the two.”

“How dare you, sir! Brunch is a wonderful and magical blessing upon this Earth!” James accused with a laugh, pointing his hairbrush at Francis. 

But as much grumbling and complaining as Francis did (he didn’t think he’d ever truly be able to break that habit), he found himself in a much better mood. It was all James’s fault, of course, causing his sudden influx of good moods. He followed James down to the brunch, making minor complaints all the way, but he did go. And he did eat the brunch. And he did talk to his fellow writers, listen to James’s repeating stories, even laugh. He was enjoying himself at a brunch, two things he did not think he would ever experience, and yet...yet with James they came easily. 

He felt rather changed by the whole experience. Perhaps...this was ok. Perhaps this whole trip had been ok. More than ok, if he thought about it truly, and he did as they left the first brunch that Francis had ever enjoyed and headed back to their cottage to wrap up whatever they were writing and wait for their rides home. 

And looking ahead, Francis saw hope in his future for the first time in many a year. He was looking forward to things, anticipating in a way he hadn’t in nearly a decade now. Perhaps this trip had been exactly what he needed, though he would never concede victory to Ross about it. 

When he arrived home, he would return to his writing, yes, but he had the promise of coffee with James waiting for him too. The promise of more. Yes, perhaps this trip had been more than ok. Perhaps even wonderful, he thought to himself, as James pressed a kiss to his forehead. 

  
  



End file.
